


Go Home and Pretend This Never Happened

by thegirlwiththemouseyhair



Series: Go Home and Pretend This Never Happened [2]
Category: Velvet Goldmine
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Apologies, Closure, Cynicism, Drug Addiction, Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, M/M, Overdosing, References to Past Suicide Attempt, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-20
Updated: 2018-04-03
Packaged: 2019-03-31 23:51:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13985955
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thegirlwiththemouseyhair/pseuds/thegirlwiththemouseyhair
Summary: A bit of bad luck forces Curt back into Arthur's life.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This takes place a few months after my old fic, Songs to Set Me Free. Most of the warnings are for things that occur in the previous story, but are mentioned or implied here.

Arthur _would_ stay home from work, but he needs the money, and he can’t push his luck after his hours were cut last month. Besides, no one knows his history with Curt Wild, or cares why he dreads seeing Curt at that signing next week.

But the dread nearly makes him ill. Arthur’s manager, Mr. Waller, couldn’t have arranged Curt’s appearance at a worse time. Arthur’s supply of ‘ludes ran out recently, and he can’t get a new prescription. Worse, the only mate Arthur has at the shop, and could ask for help, is out of London. It’s ironic. Shelley – Arthur’s mate – would appreciate a chance to meet Curt. Shelley, at least, knows who Curt is, which is better than Mr. Waller. Waller couldn’t put a face to Curt’s name without first checking the album covers on the shelves. It doesn’t much matter, though. Arthur knew Curt better than any of them, or thought he did, and what good did _that_ do him?

He spends the week scrambling for some way to avoid Curt, but finds none. The shop will be too busy for him to skive off. Curt’s still a big name, even though he has cancelled several concerts and has been in and out of rehab since Arthur left him. After a couple days worrying, Arthur starts praying that Curt will cancel this appearance, too. Maybe Curt will overdose again – do one decent thing for Arthur, and stay away. But Arthur can’t count on it. In fact, he’s known in his bones that something bad had to happen ever since he moved in with Paul, his sort-of boyfriend. Arthur’s luck never did hold for long.

Twice that week, Arthur takes out the pin Curt gave him. He must love pain: staring at that pin takes Arthur back to the Continent and Curt’s tour. It wouldn’t be so bad if he could remember _only_ those early days – tender sex, glorious music, the fun of flaunting his and Curt’s relationship – without recalling the aftermath. But the aftermath is far more real. In the silence of Paul’s flat after Paul leaves for work, or alone in the alley near the record store, Arthur almost hears Curt shouting at him. He can almost feel the bruises, too – the ones Curt gave him, and the ones from the IV digging into his hand in the hospital. Curt must have given him the pin to, what, pay him off? Arthur should have smashed the damn thing in the street. He shouldn’t have kept anything to remind him of Curt, or thought of Curt for one minute since they split. He certainly never should have imagined it was Curt he was shagging when he was with Paul or some other bloke. Yet here he is, clinging to Curt’s stupid pin. Seeing Curt again would set back whatever progress he has made, _if_ he’s made any.

*

Predictably, the day of the signing dawns grey and miserable. The first thing Arthur hears when he wakes up is rain lashing the skylight above him. It must have started sometime after Arthur woke up to be sick. He shuts his eyes, trying not to remember spending half the night vomiting, or to think of the coming ordeal. If only he could sleep through the day instead…

But that won’t happen. For one thing, Paul is making too much noise in the kitchen for Arthur to even pretend to sleep. He lies under the covers, trying to muffle the whistling kettle and clacking plates and cutlery. At last he gives in. When he climbs out of bed, he’s careful to keep his head down, for fear of vertigo.

Paul greets him with a smile and a cup of tea.

“Earl Grey, and I tried to make it dark enough for you,” Paul says, setting the kettle down and picking up his plate. “And three sugars. It must taste like you’re drinking candy instead of tea, but I daresay you need them. Were you ill last night?”

Arthur turns his face from Paul and takes a sip of tea. He has kept Paul more or less in the dark about the ‘ludes and the other drugs, which suits Arthur. He doesn’t completely trust Paul, or rather, he doesn’t know how Paul would respond if he knew the truth. As for Curt, well, the less said about him, the better. How’s Arthur supposed to explain Curt to the man he’s living with now? _My ex_. _The man who ruined my life. The rock musician I thought would make me special and important, and the reason I tried to top myself once, in a fit of drunken spite and stupidity. I get to see him at my work today. How’s that for luck?_ He suppresses a shudder.

“I, um, must have eaten something dodgy,” he murmurs, in response to Paul’s question. “Me and a mate – we tried this kebab place near the shop. It was rubbish. Sorry I woke you.”

Paul clucks his tongue. Arthur holds his breath. Paul _should_ fall for the lie. He’s prissy, and strangely conservative about food, and other things, too, which worry Arthur more.

“Arthur, you should be more careful with those places. I know you and your mates like to be very open-minded, but you don’t know what’s in these ethnic foods...”

Paul natters on for a while: he rarely misses an opportunity to patronize Arthur. It’s a wonder Arthur can resist rolling his eyes.

“Well,” Paul says, softening, “never mind. I don’t like knowing you’ve been out of sorts.” He favours Arthur with a small smile. “And _I_ wouldn’t be daring enough to try a kebab. You make me feel old sometimes.”

His cheerfulness grates on Arthur’s nerves. Arthur wants to ask how Paul can be so thick. He's _seen_ Arthur popping pills on occasion, when Arthur could get them. But Arthur swallows his anger, and tries to look mild and appreciative as he sips his tea.

“I’m all right now.”

Paul takes a bite of toast. “Good. Get some rest when you come home tonight; I’ll be out late.”

Arthur hides his scowl. He’d forgotten about Paul’s Thursday night drinks with his naff mates from work. Still, he doesn’t want to start a row when Paul’s trying to be kind, or thinks he is.

“Try to eat something,” Paul adds. If he has noticed Arthur’s annoyance, he doesn’t show it, and bends to kiss Arthur on the forehead. Arthur lowers his cup and tilts his face to kiss Paul’s lips, but Paul refuses him.

“I brushed my teeth, you know,” Arthur mutters.

Paul’s face reddens. “Yes – Sorry – I should go.” He turns from Arthur, nearly dropping his plate in his hurry to put it down. “I’ll see you later, love.”

Arthur watches Paul put on his mac and walk out the door. He finishes his tea in silence, except for the pounding of the rain on the window. Then he washes the dishes in an effort to keep thoughts of Curt at bay with dull labour. It doesn’t help. Curt’s bound to recognize him, unless he can stay out of sight, in the back, maybe, though Mr. Waller won’t like Arthur skulking in the back today. Arthur wonders if Curt will speak to him or ignore him, like he did after he finally dumped Arthur in that hospital. A nice move, that, on Curt’s part. Arthur wishes he could act on the one decent bit of advice Curt gave him.

“ _Go home_ ,” Curt had said. “ _Make some normal friends. Pretend none of this ever happened_.”

It’s only when Arthur finishes the washing up and steps into the shower that he realizes he’s shaking. He turns the water as hot as it will go, doggedly carrying on his morning routine, and desperate for anything that might calm him. Another irony: no doctor will prescribe him ‘ludes even though he can’t sleep or calm down anymore. For the first time, Arthur needs the drugs for their intended purpose, among others.

He spends the morning at work ignoring the queue outside and the too-large crowd inside. The crowd's exuberance makes his gut twist. Arthur might as well be awaiting a death sentence – a very noisy, public one, like some awful medieval execution. By the time Mr. Waller asks Arthur and Jill, the shop girl, to start setting up for Curt, Arthur has bitten his nails down to the quick. There’ll be no hiding in the back today. He was an idiot even to hope.

“Arthur, you keep this lot in line, will you?” Mr. Waller waves fat fingers at the crowd of excited kids. Arthur chokes back sudden, fierce hatred. Mr. Waller must be stupider than Arthur thought, not to see the hate in Arthur’s face. Then again, some small part of Arthur knows his hatred is as savage as it is because he used to _be_ one of those idiot kids. He was the stupidest of them all, in fact. He believed there was finally some hope in his life thanks to glam rock, and that the one good thing about his dad chucking him out was living his dreams in London’s glam scene – as if it mattered.

“Yes, sir,” Arthur replies through clenched teeth.

He scans the crowd again, trying to map a path from one part of the shop to the other. It’s that busy, and the chair Arthur set out for Curt has blocked one of the narrow aisles. He ignores the sudden, throat-tightening feeling of being trapped, and pushes past a group of fans to the front of the queue. Jill beams at him from the cash machine, where she has put _TV Eye_ on the sound system. It’s a surprising choice, from before Brian Slade catapulted Curt to superstardom. Arthur doesn’t care, though. He tunes out the music as he winds through the cheering mob, snapping at a few people to quiet down. His admonishments are useless. The excitement in the room sizzles like a current of electricity. This lot won’t shut up just because Arthur asks them to. No sooner has he finished telling a group of girls to keep it down than they start up cheering again, _Curt fucking Wild_. The knot in Arthur’s stomach hardens. He remembers hearing the same chant a dozen times, if not a hundred. It used to thrill him, knowing what Curt meant to rooms full of people, and knowing that he, Arthur, was the one traveling and living with Curt. Arthur bites his lip until he tastes the threatening tang of blood.

Then several heads turn at once toward the door. The cheering hushes; Arthur’s heartbeat quickens as a murmur runs through the room. This must be it. Arthur looks around, and registers Mr. Waller’s fishy, flattering grin, and Curt opening the door at last. The queue explodes into renewed cheering. Arthur gives up trying to keep them in line. He can’t. There’s a sudden roaring in his ears and he tastes bile at the back of his throat. He imagines himself being sick again, right now. It would be too humiliating: he’d rather die than make a scene in front of Curt. He should have quit this fucking job a week ago. He _could_ have found another one, surely?

But he steels himself, and swallows. Several fans surge forward toward Curt, which allows Arthur to turn away and scold them.

“Arthur! Arthur, never mind them; I need you at the cash machine,” Mr. Waller shrills at him, over the chants of _Curt fucking Wild!_ “I’ll take over where you are.”

Arthur winces, wishing Mr. Waller hadn’t shouted his name. Curt must have heard. Arthur steals a glance in Curt’s direction. The sight makes Arthur’s breath catch. Curt’s shirt is buttoned too low, exposing a pale expanse of chest and collar bone. The stupid shirt’s leopard print, too – cliched, arrogant, and hateful. It reminds Arthur of the one Curt wore on the first night they slept together. The jeans are different, a newer fashion, but they hug the curve of Curt’s arse in a way that makes Arthur want to look away. Curt catches him staring before he can. Arthur sees Curt’s mouth open in surprise. Then he averts his gaze. Silently, he curses Curt for picking him out of the crowd and curses Mr. Waller for calling him. He feels almost as exposed as he did that day when his dad broke in on him, and makes his way to the cash on leaden legs. This time, he refuses to look at Curt, despite passing quite close to him.

The cash machine’s closer to Curt than Arthur would like. Really, the whole shop’s too small to offer any cover. Arthur soon finds that the rhythmic cheering and pounding music make his head ache, which, in turn, leaves him uncoordinated at the till and annoys several kids buying albums for Curt to sign. Arthur doesn’t care. He’s had enough of Curt Wild for one lifetime, thank you. Anyway, Mr. Waller’s too busy to notice or get angry, standing beside Curt like a proud parent. It’s horrid.

For a while, at least, Arthur manages not to glance in Curt’s direction. It’s bad enough that their eyes met once: he wants nothing more to do with Curt, and he’s busy and distracted at the cash. But his resolve weakens as the day wears on. Curt is, well, _Curt_. Arthur is drawn to him like the cliché moth to a flame, ready to get burnt up and snuffed out. He steals one more glance at Curt, then, later, another. Every smile Curt has for someone else sends a painful stab of resentment through Arthur. He can’t help noticing those smiles, or the way Curt’s blue eyes sparkle at something one of his fans says. Those eyes are just as blue when they narrow in anger at another kid. Arthur can imagine what might upset Curt in so brief a conversation – a question about Brian or Curt’s handful of glam rock hits. Curt must be scolding this boy to listen to his earlier stuff, or his new stuff, if’s he’s working on any.

Arthur’s relieved the next time Curt meets his gaze, though he comes to his senses quickly. He shouldn’t be glad that Curt has seen him, any more than he should be jealous of these stupid, star-struck fans.

“Would you hurry?” the girl at the cash snaps, pulling Arthur from his daydreaming. “It looks like they’ll be closing soon, and I’ve _got_ to meet him.” She gestures toward Curt, tossing her blonde hair. Arthur rings up her LP, and shoves it across the counter.

“You should have brought something of your own, then, if you’re so clever.” That’s what Arthur would have done. He sneers a little as he speaks, then peers at Mr. Waller, still hovering over Curt. Arthur has never, ever started a row with a customer before.

“Piss off,” the girl says, glaring at him and snatching back the record. Arthur looks down. Once, he could have asked Curt to stay longer to sign an autograph or do some other favour for a fan. He wouldn’t do it for this girl even if he still could, but the thought, or rather, the memory, is weird.

The girl darts away to rejoin the queue. Arthur tries to forget the incident, and notes with relief that the crowd has thinned. He looks up at the wall clock. They _will_ have to close soon. Maybe he can make it to the end of the day without talking to Curt…

At last, Mr. Waller leaves Curt’s side long enough to turn the sign in the window from _open_ to _closed._ Arthur and Jill escort the last few straggling, protesting fans out of the shop. Awkwardly telling kids to leave reminds Arthur of his nominal job with the Flaming Creatures, a lifetime ago. For a moment he’s back in some concert hall asking stoned, sweaty fans to go home, because the show’s over and the band needs to pack up their gear. He winces. The memory’s too raw, today, with his head pounding and the shop empty enough for him to _feel_ Curt watching him.

Naturally, Curt picks that moment to speak to Arthur.

“Arthur, can I have…”

Maybe he thinks Arthur won’t mind, with only the four of them left. Maybe he doesn’t care, which seems more likely. Either way, there’s no reason for Curt to single Arthur out – at least none that Jill and Mr. Waller know of – and they’re standing _right there_. Arthur imagines Mr. Waller asking about them, and sacking Arthur on the spot for being queer. He _can’t_ lose this job. Curt can afford to be open about that sort of thing; he’s famous, and he must have money put by. At least, he performs for huge audiences and stays in beautiful hotels. Arthur has nothing, except this shit job and the flat Paul’s letting him crash in. He shoots Curt his best withering glare, risking Mr. Waller’s annoyance.

Mr. Waller, however, doesn’t notice. Instead he does something useful: he gets between Curt and Arthur.

“What is it, Mr. Wild?” he asks. “We’ll get you anything you like. You were smashing today. You were...”

Curt was smashing at drawing a crowd and selling records: that’s all. Mr. Waller would have called Curt or Brian Slade or Jack Fairy something very different in private, say, to a mate at the pub.

“I ought to tidy up,” Arthur says to Mr. Waller. “Sir.”

He catches Curt’s eye again before scurrying to the back of the shop, ignoring Curt’s reply to Mr. Waller’s question. It’s a pity Jill shut off the music. Arthur hated listening to Curt earlier, as he has hated Curt’s music all these months, but the noise made it easier to avoid conversation. He buries himself in the shelves way at the back of the shop, ordering records lovingly until Jill wanders over.

“He’s gone, you know,” she says. Arthur looks up, scans the shop, and breathes a sigh of relief to see that she’s right. “Mr. Waller said I should help you set up for tomorrow.”

“Great; you can start there.” Arthur gestures toward one of the other shelves, across the narrow corridor. Jill makes no sign of leaving, however. Instead she fidgets with a rather gaudy plastic necklace that’s hanging over her blouse.

“Why was Curt Wild trying to speak to you? It would have made more sense for him to tell Mr. Waller if he wanted anything, not you or me.”

A drop of sweat beads Arthur’s brow. He doesn’t dare wipe it, though. She’d notice if he did. If only Jill, not Shelley, Arthur's one mate here, had been called home because of a death in her family. Shelley, at least, knew about Arthur's traveling with some bands, and would probably be cool and understanding if he ever told her about Curt. Jill, by contrast, is nosy and rather jealous, despite her utter obliviousness.

“I don’t know,” Arthur lies. Lying comes naturally, these days. “He must have heard Mr. Waller calling me; I don’t think Waller said your name aloud today.”

“Yes, he did. Several times.”

“Oh. Well, I didn’t notice. What was Curt – Curt Wild asking for?”

“I forget.”

 _Well, aren’t you clever,_ Arthur thinks, suppressing a scowl. _Proper Sherlock Holmes._

“It was nothing special, nothing that he needed you for...:”

“Well, if _you_ forget, or weren’t listening, why should I care what he wanted?”

She gives a snort of laughter at Arthur’s bad temper.

“I thought it was brilliant. The whole thing. I hope he comes back.”

“Don’t count on it. Maybe Waller will get someone else, though.”

Jill shrugs, fidgeting with her necklace again. “Maybe Brian Slade, except you never hear about him anymore, do you?”

Mr. Waller shouts at them from the front of the shop.

“Would you two hurry up?”

Arthur would have liked to, before Jill started bothering him. But he controls himself, and gives her a nod.

“Go on,” he says, more gently. “We’re already closing up late. I’m sure we all want to get home.”

*

The three of them leave the shop soon after. Mr. Waller gets into his car, and Jill hails a cab, which is extravagant, but it _is_ pouring rain. Maybe she has a date to get to, as well. She’s sort of pretty, and Arthur can see why a straight bloke would find her attractive, despite her being irritating. That might explain why she was so cheerful in the face of Arthur’s rudeness. Either way, he’s relieved to be walking to the Tube station alone.

He’s hardly ten feet from the shop when he freezes. Curt is waiting for him across the street, fumbling in the awning of the coffee bar with a lighter and a cigarette that won’t light. He stops trying when he sees Arthur and runs toward him, heedless of traffic or blaring car horns. Arthur slumps his shoulders. He should have known, should have sneaked out the side entrance they use for stock, which opens onto an empty alley. He should have realized Curt might accost him as he tried to leave.

“Hey,” Curt says, drawing close enough to reach out and touch Arthur, if he wanted to. Arthur bristles, thinking of his little alley. Curt wouldn’t know it exists. Arthur, meanwhile, spends enough cigarette breaks there to have befriended the sad alley cat by feeding her leftover ham sandwiches or fish ‘n’ chips. Arthur doesn’t need them: he never has much appetite. The cat would be far better company than Curt.

“I’m just curious,” Arthur says, coldly, “but what made you think I _want_ to talk to you?”

Curt stops short. It takes him a moment to recover his voice, but recover he does, regrettably.

“Nothing. But I knew you were from London, and when your manager called you, I hoped –”

“I’m _not_ from London, you idiot. If you’d ever listened to me, you’d know that.”

He _should_ be walking away, not arguing with Curt. For fuck’s sake, avoiding Curt has been his only goal this week – his only goal for _months_ – yet he’s done everything wrong. But he can’t resist an acid remark. He had thought Curt took an interest in him when they met and talked and shagged on that rooftop. _Obviously not, now tell him to piss off…_

“I _did_ know that,” Curt says. Arthur snorts. “Anyway, I was such a piece of shit to you when – on the tour, and I never thought I’d see you again. It’s like today was fate, so I could un-fuck things...”

“Yeah? You’ve got a strange way of doing that, nearly outing me at work, and forcing me to talk about this shit in the fucking street...”

Curt’s eyes widen: he hadn’t realized he was doing anything wrong. Of course not. He doesn’t think about things like that, or about other people.

“I didn’t, and I’m not. All I said was your name, in the store.”

“And what were you going to say after that?”

“I – I’m not sure.” Curt holds out a hand to Arthur. “Just come somewhere private, okay? So we’re not fighting in the street.”

Arthur imagines taking Curt’s hand, like he used to. He squeezes his eyes shut, then snaps them open again, his face burning.

“Piss off; I’m not going anywhere with you.”

“Then don’t fucking hear me out.” Curt drops his hand, eyes narrowing and nostrils flaring. “I won’t drag you hissing and spitting.”

He turns from Arthur, spots a black cab across the street, and waves to the driver. Arthur stifles a sigh. It’s so fucking manipulative for Curt to offer an apology or a scrap of kindness, then snatch it back. Arthur watches him cross the street toward the cab. What good will listening to Curt do? He should be glad that Curt is about to exit his life as abruptly as he came back into it.

And yet, when Curt stops and gives Arthur a lingering and unfathomable stare over his shoulder, Arthur breaks. Some primal, masochistic instinct surges, and he runs after Curt to join him in the cab.

“You should be grateful I’m talking to you at all,” Arthur murmurs, ashamed, but determined to save face if he can. His temples pound.

“I am, and I didn’t mean to make shit awkward at your job. I had no idea you worked there.”

“‘Course you didn’t,” Arthur says. Curt must mistake Arthur’s words for encouragement. He shifts closer to Arthur, and tries to joke, though he keeps his voice too low for the driver to hear.

“If I wanted to cause trouble, I’d have told your boss when he was offering me the fucking moon that you were the only thing I wanted, and asked if there was a bathroom or a backroom available. I can see his face.” He smiles a cautious smile at Arthur, who ignores him. “But even if your boss wanted to pimp you –”

“Do you mind not joking about that?”

Arthur glares at Curt. Curt no longer has any business teasing him like that. But there’s something outrageous about the idea, too – about imagining Waller’s face in that scenario. It’s like those stunts in which Brian pretended to suck Curt off on stage, or the times Curt asked to be photographed with Arthur draped over his half-naked body. They were daring anyone to have a problem with them. Arthur used to love that daring. He resents it now, for making it hard to be as angry as he should.

“I think old Waller would have been happy to prostitute me, whatever his personal feelings about buggery.” He shakes his head, before launching into his best impression of his employer. “‘I’ll get you anything you _like_ , Mr. Wild. You were so helpful – smashing – Mr. Wild…’ You must have hated that pathetic – sycophant.”

Curt lights a cigarette and inhales. “Probably not as much as you. I’ll never see him again. But I wouldn’t have done anything to hurt you – not when I’m sober.”

His audacity in expecting Arthur to believe him makes Arthur grind his teeth.

“You did enough. I don’t even know why I followed you. It was so nasty of you, too, running to this cab so I’d have to follow or watch you drive off without knowing what you wanted.”

Another wide-eyed stare from Curt. Arthur wants to shake him or snap at him not to play dumb. Then again, Curt _might_ be selfish enough not to realize anything was wrong. He certainly isn’t the kind or generous man Arthur first thought him.

“I wasn’t thinking that,” Curt says. “Honest. Should I drop you at the nearest subway station?”

Arthur stares out the window, thinking, _Thanks for offering now that it’s too late. Thanks for nothing, as usual._ But he’s not keen to go home to an empty flat, either. He might as well not exist to Paul tonight. Paul won’t miss drinks with his colleagues, and can’t have his square banker mates thinking he’s a fucking shirt lifter or finding out about Arthur. Arthur hates these evenings, not because he gets lonely – he doesn’t – but because knowing Paul’s ashamed of him reminds him of his family’s shame, and his own. _The one problem I_ didn’t _have with Curt…_

“We’ve passed the station,” Arthur replies. “Just be damn grateful I’m here, like I said.”

He feels Curt’s fingers brush his, briefly, and stiffens. Curt withdraws his hand before Arthur can complain.

“I am _._ My hotel’s nearby. Don’t worry.”

In answer, Arthur grimaces and inches further away from Curt.


	2. Chapter 2

When they reach the hotel, Curt asks Arthur if he prefers the bar or the privacy of Curt’s room. Arthur, annoyed that he’s even here, is no help in deciding.

“I don’t know,” Arthur mutters, “I’m fucking knackered, and I wish I’d never seen you. How should I know?”

But he lets Curt lead him up to his room. It’s stupid. Arthur knows himself, and knows he might end up sleeping with Curt again, like a lovesick idiot, but it makes sense, too. They’re bound to have a row first, and it’s better to be alone when that happens.

Curt unlocks the door. Arthur follows him into the room, taking in the musty smell, faded walls, and third-rate watercolour over the bed. It’s a right come down from the places they stayed in together. Curt obviously isn’t doing well. That explains why an appearance in Arthur’s small record shop wasn’t beneath him, if he’s been forgotten – a flash-in-the-pan who can’t succeed in the second half of the decade. And yet, that can’t be the whole picture, either. Arthur’s shop had too much turnout today for Curt to have been forgotten. Curt must have pissed away everything he earned on drugs instead of putting anything by.

“Money troubles?” Arthur asks. “Not that I care.”

The hiss of Curt’s lighter is the only reply, for a while.

“My manager made this dinner reservation at some posh restaurant,” Curt says, at length. The digression irks Arthur. “He’s like a shitty Jerry Devine wannabe – Jerry was Brian’s manager –”

“I _know_ that.”

“Yeah, well, according to the Jerry Devine school of thought, if I act like I’m still a big fucking success, the money’ll follow. People are supposed to see me at this stupid restaurant. No one needs to see my hotel.”

“Less impressive for your tricks and groupies, though.” Arthur’s voice drips with sarcasm.

“Lee – my manager – doesn’t give a shit about that, and there _is_ no money.” Curt sighs. Arthur gives him a grudging look. He’s not here to listen to Curt whinge about being poor. What right does Curt have to complain? A month ago, Arthur could hardly pay his rent. He feared he’d end up on the street if he couldn’t talk Paul into letting him move in.

“Lee only understands that fact – like – selectively. I’m stuck with him ‘cause I didn’t have any other options. Things fell apart with Jack and his management after –”

He stops short. Arthur turns away, clenching his jaw. He can imagine when things fell apart, or, rather, when Curt made a mess of everything.

“Sit down,” Curt says.

Arthur takes a seat on the sofa without a word. Curt sprawls in an armchair across from him, too close for comfort.

“This is way more important than some fucking dinner I’m dying to miss. I needed to know if you’re okay. I miss talking to you, too.”

Arthur scoffs. “It’s all about you, isn’t it? It always was.”

“That’s not what I meant. I feel bad things ended up like they did –”

“They didn’t ‘end up’ anything,” Arthur snaps, “you did those things. You tried to get me onto heroin; you hit me, right in front of some stupid groupie friends you picked up. You –” _You insulted me._ The words stick in his throat. They’ll make him sound like a child and prove that Curt was right to treat him with such contempt. ‘ _I didn’t sign up to look after a goddamn kid…’_ “You abandoned me. More than once. The night I OD’ed you were at a fucking party, and then –”

“Arthur, I know. I remember.”

Curt takes his hand. Arthur jerks back in disgust and glares at Curt, noting the flash of hurt that crosses his face. _Good._

“You think I’m proud of that?” Curt asks, taking a hurried drag on his cigarette. “You’re the last person who deserved that –”

“Oh, so another boyfriend or girlfriend would have deserved it?”

“That’s not –”

“Fuck you, Curt. I shouldn’t have come here, and I want to go home. I’m living with a bloke who hasn’t – hasn’t done any of that to me, not yet.”

Arthur gets up. Curt’s face crumples, which makes some small twinge of guilt or pity flare in Arthur. It’s absurd. _I shouldn’t be here; I shouldn’t feel sorry for him. I’m so fucking stupid I may deserve the messes I get myself into._

“You know I hated myself for that,” Curt says quietly. “Leave, if you have to, but all I wanted was to see if you were okay, or if I can help.”

The sadness in Curt’s voice does its work. Arthur hesitates in the narrow space between the sofa and the door, inhaling the scent of Curt’s cigarette smoke, and biting his swollen lip.

“Go on,” Curt says, “if you want. I just – You were so good to talk to; I miss it.”

“You said that already.”

Curt shrugs. “I mean it. You should be a journalist or a shrink or something.”

“I’m not going to be _anything._ I’ve got no A-levels and no qualifications; I can’t do anything, and I probably won’t live long enough anyway.”

“Arthur, listen –”

“No.” Arthur’s palms have started to sweat and his heart to race, but he continues. “Shut up and let me talk, since you wanted me here. I’ve got nothing. I’m sure I’ll start using something hard and OD eventually. If not, then I’ll – I’ll stumble in front of a train or off a balcony, and it’s your fault – your influence.”

“Hey, I never _forced_ you.”

“Fuck you,” Arthur says again. His whole body has grown hot with anger. He doesn’t want to admit that Curt has a point – a narrow, factual one, trivial next to the hurt he inflicted. For fuck’s sake, Curt ruined Arthur’s life, after Arthur would have given everything for him. He used and humiliated Arthur. Arthur remembers leaving that hospital unsure whether they should have bothered saving him. He had nothing: no friends, except those he’d snubbed for Curt, no money, except what Curt gave him, and nowhere to go. No wonder he thought his life was over. Worse, sometimes he still feels like that.

“Don’t make excuses, and if you want to talk, that means _I_ get to talk, too.”

Curt flinches, and backs down.

“I just – hate hearing you say things like that,” he admits. “About dying and shit. I actually had a friend in New York who died that way – broke his neck falling off a balcony while high. He reminded me of you. The same pout, and the same smile.”

Arthur shakes his head. Had Curt ever seen anything in _him_ except a vague echo of previous lovers?

“What can I do?” Curt asks.

Curt _could_ have been the man Arthur dreamed of, and thought he loved, months ago. It’s too late, though. It was probably always too much to ask. Maybe they never had a chance to be anything other than what they were, a pair of miserable rejects and junkies. Arthur was never going to find happiness with Curt or Brian Slade or someone similar, was he? No one as fumbling, ignorant, and insignificant as Arthur could have. Hell, look how badly Curt and Brian ended, and they, at least, were both famous and talented. But Arthur shouldn’t have been _used_ like he was, either. Curt had no right to do that, no matter how fucked up he was.

“Tell you what,” Arthur says. There's some pleasure in Curt’s discomfort with the morbid tone of their conversation. “You can write a song about me. Make me famous once I’m gone and no one’s noticed or cared. My name can be like Eleanor fucking Rigby for the seventies.”

“You’re talking like I’m gonna outlive you,” Curt remarks. “I might not. I’m sober now, but it won’t last.” He inhales again, and sags against the back of his chair. “I’m _sorry;_ you know. I wish I hadn’t fucked up your life.”

_Thanks_ , Arthur thinks. Once, he found Curt’s apologies sweet and convincing. He thought that champagne and makeup sex compensated for the pounding fists, shouted insults, or nights alone in the lobby, praying Curt would take him back in the morning. Then came that one moment of violence, brief, but shocking in its brutality. It was the first such experience of Arthur’s life, and it came from Curt. He can’t let his guard down, even if Curt _is_ being as gentle as a kitten with him. Kittens have claws, after all. He says nothing.

Curt goes on instead.

“I should have left you smiling on that rooftop, not bragging about how you’ll die of an overdose, and no one’s gonna notice or give a shit.” His brow furrows. “What about the guy you’re living with?”

“What?”

“Wouldn’t he notice if something happened?”

“Oh.” Arthur sits down again, keeping as far from Curt as he can. The reference to Paul has offered him a perfect excuse to leave, but he won’t take it. The empty flat is too miserable, too unsatisfying. For a moment Arthur resents Paul almost as much as he resents Curt. He might be better off alone. Perhaps he could take his stray cat from the alley home as a companion, and stop chasing after these fucked up men. But it’s Arthur who’s the real fuck up, isn’t it? Arthur, who’s here with Curt now, and who wouldn’t _have_ a home if it weren’t for Paul…

“He’ll move on soon,” Arthur says.

“Then he doesn’t deserve you.”

“What’s that, then, the pot calling the kettle black?”

A muscle in Curt’s jaw twitches.

“Hey, I’m trying to help you.” He looks Arthur over, his features tense and wary, like he’s picking his way through a minefield. Arthur knows the feeling. “Mind you, you don’t _seem_ all that bad.”

Arthur scowls, feeling some of his anger drain from him. Paul sometimes teases him by saying that he’s too melodramatic for his age and for his own good. Maybe Paul’s not entirely wrong.

“I’m alive. I guess that’s good. I’m not doing anything harder than downers – mainly ‘ludes – and I’d be better off if it wasn’t dead hard to get them.” The withdrawal has been worse than any Arthur can remember, except, of course, after his disastrous experiments with heroin. He has vomited several times, which is unusual. He made a few humiliating runs to the toilet in the coffee bar near the shop, and he’s lucky he’s been able to fool Paul about his illness last night and throughout the week.

“There’s hope for you,” Curt says.

Arthur runs his fingers through the fringe of his hair, hiding his eyes. “Can I have a smoke? Please?”

“I can do better.” Curt takes a plastic bag from his pocket and begins rolling a joint. “Here. You look kind of green…”

“I’m getting used to being sick all the time.”

“Aren’t we all? Don’t worry; I’d still fuck you. It just shows how attractive you are.”

“Shut up, will you?”

“OK.” Curt finishes rolling the joint, and offers it to Arthur. Their fingers brush as Arthur takes it, and the brief touch makes the hairs at the back of Arthur’s neck prickle. Arthur recoils, clutching the joint. He’s _not_ going to sleep with Curt again or take him back. Why would he? Arthur’s no longer the stupid, naive boy he was when they first met. He has learned too much to take that chance.

And yet, Arthur has spoken more in a few minutes with Curt than he does in a day with Paul or anyone else. It’s been months since he had someone to talk to about the things he values and the life that he once lived. Jill and Mr. Waller and even Shelley are no help. He hasn’t dared to call Malcolm or any of the Flaming Creatures, not after he dumped them for Curt, like he was too good for them. The friendships Arthur made at concerts and on tour never lasted long, either. Friendships? Those weren’t friendships. Arthur might exchange a smile and a few words with some other fan in the audience, if he was lucky. Then he'd be standing around alone again, waiting for the music to mask the awkwardness. As for Paul – well. He and Arthur have nothing in common. When Arthur’s honest with himself, he can admit that he likes Paul’s flat more than he likes Paul. Arguing with Curt is better than the loneliness of the last few months. He wishes it weren’t.

“Are you going back to New York soon?” he asks.

Curt finishes his cigarette, stubs it out, then rolls a joint of his own. “Tomorrow. And I’m not going back to New York. I’m taking a place in L.A. My new label’s based there.”

“Wow.”

Los Angeles sounds very exotic and very final. It shouldn’t: it’s not as if Arthur could or would have followed Curt to New York, either. Still, he finds it hard to keep his expression neutral as he drags on the joint.

Curt must notice the heavy silence looming over them.

“Are you still into writing and shit?” he asks, in a stubborn and rather desperate attempt at conversation.

“No. I don’t have time.”

It’s a convenient lie. Arthur’s up every night with insomnia, which would give him plenty of time to write, if he wanted to. But what’s the point? He’s no good at writing or anything else. Besides, despair has sapped his interest in scribbling, as it has sapped his interest in music.

The lie has its desired effect. Curt hesitates before answering.

“I – You should do something, though. It might help.” Curt smiles, a weak, thin smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “I mean, writing music helps me, sometimes. Least, it used to.”

Arthur snorts. Curt wouldn’t be nearly as fucked up as he is, and wouldn’t be _Curt Wild_ , if music had any therapeutic effect on him.

“Anyway, I still want to see myself in a book someday.”

“You wouldn’t like yourself if you did.”

“Man, I don’t like myself now, so I’m used to it.” Curt exhales. “But I’m glad I saw you – glad you’re still alive – so I could apologize properly.”

“You’ve done nothing but apologize.” Arthur’s heart knocks against his ribs. What good will Curt’s apologies do him? If Curt is being sincere, then Arthur’s unimpressed – not that he can be sure Curt  _is_ sincere. Perhaps Curt’s pretending to treat Arthur kindly to ease his own guilt, Arthur’s feelings be damned. Either way, it doesn’t matter anymore. Arthur doesn’t need Curt. He has somewhere else to go, more or less, which he didn’t have last time.

“Look, I was completely fucked up on that tour, drinking and shooting anything I could find. I was losing money and couldn’t sleep; I –”

That’s one excuse too many.

“I don’t care,” Arthur snaps. “It doesn’t – doesn’t justify anything. I can’t sleep, either, and I don’t act like you did. That –”

“Arthur –”

“That doesn’t make anything right.” At best, Curt’s contrition may show that he’s not completely cruel, just too fucked up and selfish to be with. It’s a shame, because for a brief period, Arthur thought he was perfectly happy with Curt. People like Curt and Brian were going to change the world, and Arthur felt so lucky to be with Curt, to be chosen.

Curt’s grim voice intrudes on the memory.

“Jack said the same thing to me. He hardly talks to me now, and when we _were_ talking, he made it clear what he thought of me. How I – treated you. It’s part of why everything went to shit.”

Arthur holds the joint in one hand and chews at the stinging, reddened skin around his nails, his gaze fixed on the damage that he’s doing. In his mind’s eye he pictures the hospital in Paris. Most people who go to Paris must remember museums, or tree-lined boulevards, or cafes where long-dead artists dreamed and worked. Not Arthur. He remembers IV methadone, and being too ill to walk to the toilet in his hospital room without help. Of course, he remembers Curt rejecting him, too. After the breakup, and after Arthur’s discharge, Curt made Jack play the go-between. He was too much of a coward to face Arthur after dumping him – not that Jack minded the role.

“Why?” Arthur asks in a low voice. “Jack and I weren’t close.”

“Jack saved your life. You didn’t know that? When you –”

The panic that threatened Arthur in the shop comes over him. It’s almost overwhelming in its intensity; his hands grow cold and drop to his lap, and his shoulders sag. He wishes he could lie down, but can’t let Curt see him so vulnerable.

“No one told me anything,” he whispers, forcing his hand back to his mouth to take another drag.

“Jack didn’t do it to brag about it,” Curt says quickly, “and I didn’t know how to tell you. I didn’t want to remind you, or give you ideas. But it’s thanks to Jack that you’re alive.”

Arthur exhales. Maybe he was wrong to dismiss Jack Fairy. Jack _did_ try to be a friend to him, sometimes. It wasn’t his fault that Arthur preferred to party with Curt or follow Curt around like a puppy, when Curt let him.

“Well, I know it’s no thanks to _you_ ,” Arthur says, watching Curt, and pleased to see his face blanch.

“You don’t know how much sleep I lost over that,” Curt admits. “I should have been there to help –”

“You had your party to go to. You were happy to brag about that; I remember.” Curt tries to reply, only for Arthur to cut him off. “No. I don’t care about your excuses. I nearly died; I don’t have to care about them anymore. I just –” He balls his fist, heedless of how he must look, or of what he’s going to say. “You knew what I thought of you – what you were to me – knew that my parents chucked me out a few _weeks_ before we met – and look what you did. I wish –” But his violent and incoherent outburst ends as suddenly as it began. He hangs his head. He can’t make himself agree that Curt should have left him on that rooftop, or wish that he’d never met Curt at all. He _doesn’t_ want those things. It’s painful, really, how his own feelings betray him.

“I never said we would last forever,” Curt says. Arthur gives him a hard stare, which makes Curt look down. “And I didn’t force you to use smack or anything –”

“Go fuck yourself.”

“Would you listen to me?” Curt snaps, his voice rising. “You little fucking prima donna; I can’t even _try_ to do the right thing, with you. I was gonna say I shouldn’t have encouraged it.” Arthur says nothing. He watches Curt struggling to calm himself, rubbing at his neck with his free hand, and dragging on his joint. “But I –You were so clean. It was so easy to find a vein in you that I thought it was funny, like popping your cherry.”

“I don't want to hear it.” Arthur swallows hard. His stomach lurches, and he takes another desperate drag.

“Okay. Go ahead. Yell at me and get it out of your system. Later, if you want, you can fuck me and we’ll call it a goodbye kiss…”

Arthur stares at the worn carpet beneath his feet. He _might_ have done it, might have slept with Curt, if he hadn’t been so ill. Maybe it’s the pot kicking in, slowly, and making him horny, or maybe it’s dangerous for him to be so close to Curt. Either way, part of him still wants Curt – wants to fuck him hard, like that would do Arthur any good. Will he always be like this?

“I’m _not_ taking you back,” Arthur insists, exhaling.

“I don’t want you to,” Curt says. “I like you too much to ask that.”

Arthur opens his mouth, then closes it again. He’s impressed despite himself. Self-sacrifice is a new mood or act for Curt, in Arthur’s experience. He wants to probe Curt further, to see what has inspired this particular performance, but the phone rings. Curt mutters a curse as he answers it.

“Yeah? I know that. No, I’m not gonna talk to them over dinner.” The caller must be Curt’s manager. Arthur finishes the joint, watching Curt, and trying to ignore how close they are. It would be so easy to reach out and touch Curt’s hand or leg.

“No, you listen to me,” Curt goes on. “I’m sick of this shit, and anyway –” His mouth twitches as he meets Arthur’s eyes. Despite the pain and the time, he’s asking Arthur to smile with him, even laugh with him, at his manager’s expense. He used to do the same thing when they were traveling together. Sometimes he’d catch Arthur’s gaze in the middle of a row with some photographer or hotel manager, as if his rages at the world were a little joke between lovers. Arthur tilts his head to stare at the sofa instead of Curt. He finds a tear in the chintz upholstery, and loops the rough threads around his fingers.

“I ran into an ex-boyfriend, and I had important things to say to him.”

Arthur can’t tune out Curt’s stage whisper, “I care about you, not this idiot…” He turns back to Curt, quirking an eyebrow. The words are a strange blend of rebellious and endearing, but also rude and juvenile. The combination’s not as attractive as it used to be.

“He’ll think you ran into Brian Slade or someone important,” Arthur points out.

Curt opens his mouth to speak, but his manager must interrupt him with something rude. His lips curl in anger.

“Yeah, I’m ‘still gay’ - still bi – you dumb fuck. I never said I was anything else.” There’s another pause. Curt hisses in response. “Look, in a week you’ll be glad I saved you the money. Going to some overpriced restaurant won’t do shit for me.”

He places his free hand on Arthur’s, palm down. The touch sends a jolt of excitement through Arthur, who shifts position on the sofa, conscious of his cock stirring, and hoping that Curt won’t notice.

“Well, that’s the best I’m gonna do,” Curt says into the phone. “And if you don’t like it, you can fuck right off, you know that?”

He slams the receiver down, then looks at Arthur with a hint of a smile playing about his mouth. His career is obviously a joke to him. Arthur must have been another joke.

“Charming.” Arthur takes his hand away. He can’t give up his anger and resentment toward Curt, not now. Anger and resentment are all he has left. “You know you’re going to lose another manager like that.”

To his surprise Curt sniggers. “I like you hissing and spitting. I wish I’d gotten to see more of this sarcastic Arthur who’s out of shits to give.”

Arthur‘s face goes hot. “No, you don’t. I remember you chucking me out of our hotel room for taking the piss out of you. I’d spend half the night in the lobby waiting for you to calm down, wondering what people must think of me as they passed.” It was the story of his life, in a way – waiting in Curt’s room or outside Curt’s door like a kicked puppy. Waiting _endlessly_ for Curt’s love. Jesus, it was so pathetic. “Fuck –”

“‘Fuck you, Curt’?” Curt suggests. Arthur shoots him another glare.

“You said that. A couple times.” Curt sighs, and runs a hand through his rumpled hair. “What can I do? I’ll write that song for you, but it won’t be soon. You know I’m shitty at keeping promises; I can’t help it. But I’ll do it, and I hope it won’t be true by then. I hope you’ll be happier.” His face creases with pain. Arthur tenses. He doesn’t think he’ll like whatever Curt’s about to say.

“You know, I thought we were the same, when we met. When we spent that night on the roof of the Lyceum or wherever.” Arthur fumbles with the thread in his hand until it tears free of the sofa. He tries not to let his mind wander back to the Curt he first met. It’s better not to remember too clearly.

“You were the same lost, fucked up kid that I was not long ago. ‘One of those queer boys the world likes to kick around,’ was how I summed you up.” Curt must see Arthur flinch, because he adds, “I thought I loved you for it; it’s not an insult. You see, Brian had the luxury of turning everything into a fucking – gimmick, but we didn’t, and… I didn't want to kick you around, too.”

What the hell is Arthur supposed to do with a confession like that? It can’t – shouldn’t – change the past, and yet, he finds himself softening toward Curt as if under a spell. Curt loved him. But Curt must have loved or, rather, seen himself in Arthur the way Arthur sees himself in his pathetic alley cat. That must have been why Curt wanted Arthur to travel with him in the first place. It’s better than nothing, and yet…

“It’s not enough, though, is it?” Arthur asks, in a gentler tone than he has used all night. “I mean, that must be everyone’s story, except maybe Brian’s.” He shrugs. “You knew him, and I didn’t. But even if we had those things in common, it’s still not enough.”

His incoherence makes him flush, but he thinks Curt understands him.

“I guess,” Curt murmurs. “But you can trust me. This is as sane and stable as I get, you know, and it takes me a shit ton of methadone just to function…”

Arthur longs to put a hand on Curt’s shoulder or cheek. He doesn’t dare, but he leans in a little closer, and manages a sad smile.

“I should go.”

“Nothing else I can do for you? At least let me get you a drink, or room service.”

Arthur recalls the toast Paul offered him earlier. His mouth begins to water as he imagines the smell of it.

“I’m starving,” he says, realizing with faint interest that his nausea has gone. “But that’s not your problem –”

“It’s fine; I’ll buy you dinner.”

“I thought you were skint.” But Arthur relents. “I’d stay for toast or cereal or something. I – I don’t want to be long, or cause trouble.”

Curt’s mouth curves. “It’s a bit late for the full English, but I’ll see what I can do.”

Curt picks up the phone again, dials the front desk, and demands a very late breakfast. Arthur worries at his lip. It’s absurd for him to be sponging off Curt: it’s too like that last row they had in Paris. He pushes the thought away. They’re past that point, and anyway, Arthur doesn’t quite have the strength to leave Curt for the final time. Not yet.

“Eggs?” Curt mouths at Arthur. Arthur considers before nodding.

“Anything else?”

“No, thanks.”

Curt relays the message to the front desk, ends the call, and sits frowning at Arthur for a long moment.

“Look,” he begins, “if you need money or whatever –”

“No,” Arthur says, automatically. “But if you can spare some of the pot, I’d buy it off you.”

Curt has already withdrawn the plastic bag.

“Keep it. I’m not taking _your_ money.”

He drops the bag into Arthur’s hand. This time, Arthur initiates the touch, angling his palm so that it brushes Curt’s callused fingertips. Then he pulls back. He takes the bag and fidgets in his seat, unsure whether he should have stayed an extra minute.

Curt ignores the touch.

“I won’t tell you what drugs to do, although I hate to think of you ending up like me. But this is all natural, chemical-free shit – how bad can it be?”

The words send a stab of pain through Arthur. Billy from the Flaming Creatures used to make the same joke when he would share a joint with Arthur and the band. Of course, that was before Arthur ditched Billy and all of the Creatures for Curt, after they’d offered him a home and been such friends to him. He grits his teeth.

“Thanks,” he says, forcing himself to be polite despite his guilt. Maybe it’s unnecessary, or more polite than Curt deserves. It doesn’t matter. Unlike the absurd bit of rock folklore about Curt, Arthur _wasn’t_ raised by wolves. The wolves might have been kinder than Arthur’s family – or Curt’s, for that matter – but that wasn’t the case.

“It’s fine.” That’s all Curt says, which is good of him. Another silence falls, broken only by the sound of rain against the window.

The knock at the door comes sooner than Arthur expected. Curt bolts up to answer it. Something like panic clutches at Arthur as Curt opens the door for the maid. Arthur’s not used to being so public about his sexuality anymore. It’s been a long time since he was Curt Wild’s lover, scandalizing hotel staff by sleeping in Curt’s room and Curt’s bed. He'd thought he was enjoying the attention, until everything came crashing down. He pictures the doctors in that hospital, sneering at him for his girlish clothes and smudged makeup, and his cheeks burn.

Then he shoves the memories back, with an effort. He won't let himself slink out of sight: there’s nothing wrong, no reason to hide. He’s fully dressed and presentable, and he’ll be leaving soon. Hell, Curt will be leaving soon, too. No one will remember Arthur.

He squares his shoulders, and stares at the wall until the maid leaves. Curt returns and sets a tray of food down on the coffee table as Arthur releases a breath.

“Go ahead.” Curt helps himself to a mug of coffee. “I don’t want to force you to stay.”

Arthur nods. The smell of warm, buttered bread makes his stomach rumble. He spreads a slice thick with marmalade, then crams a bite into his mouth. He has to stifle a moan at the taste: it’s heavenly. The nerves and the withdrawal destroyed Arthur’s appetite, earlier. There was nothing to be done for the nerves, but the withdrawal is intolerable. He’d never meant to get addicted to anything that would make him sick if he had to go a week or two without it. But the pills had seemed so innocent, at first, compared to Curt’s and Brian’s choice of poisons. They became especially appealing after Arthur had a few depressing and downright frightening experiences with hallucinogens when he was traveling with Curt. His subconscious must have responded to his emotions, or something. Now, with the doctors and the laws getting stricter, Arthur might be better off sober. Maybe he’ll manage it one day.

He alternates wolfish bites of toast and scrambled eggs, wondering if everything Curt tried was like the ‘ludes were for Arthur – a mess of good intentions and muddled, miserable downward spirals. That could reconcile the contradictions of his nature. It could allow the brave man who talked about being gay in interviews and the kind man who stayed up half the night talking with Arthur, a complete nobody, to exist beside the man who hurt Arthur. Arthur was right in thinking that Curt was too fucked up to be with anyone. Now, however, he finds neither comfort nor satisfaction in the thought.  

He finishes his toast and reaches for Curt’s hand. Curt raises an eyebrow.

“What, the way to a guy’s heart really _is_ through his stomach…?”

“Oi, I hadn’t eaten all day…”

“I figured. You’re too skinny.”

“I could say the same about you,” Arthur counters. Curt’s also thinner than Arthur remembers him being, worse than his usual junkie thinness.

“I was sick,” Curt explains. “It’s the only reason I got clean; the doctors made me.”

Arthur swallows. Guilt pricks at him for having wished Curt would overdose and cancel today’s signing. It was a cruel, cowardly thing to hope for. “Are you all right now?”

Curt places one hand on Arthur’s arm, his grip firm and needy. Arthur draws closer to him.

“Don’t worry about me,” Curt says.

The rain continues its monotonous tapping against the window. Arthur imagines it washing away some of his bitterness. He hopes that erasing that pain won’t mean erasing Curt, too. Impulsively, he takes Curt’s hand and leans forward to kiss him. The kiss tastes of marmalade and cigarettes. Curt’s rough fingers twine in Arthur's hair, pulling him close enough to feel Curt’s heartbeat through his shirt. Arthur tries to memorize this moment, the taste and the feel of it. After all, he may never see Curt again, let alone get this close to him.

The kiss ends too soon. There’s a wrenching pain inside Arthur when he pulls back, the sort of pain that seems to lodge deep in his bones. He feels as if he’s losing some vital part of himself. He needs to give Curt up; he knows that, but the loss tears at him all the same. If there’s any such thing as a soul, then Curt has trampled all over Arthur’s, forever bruising and shaping it.

“I should go,” Arthur says.

Curt runs his thumb along Arthur’s cheek. Arthur averts his eyes.

“Thanks for coming.” Curt sounds tired and sad. Arthur can’t help it: he kisses Curt once more. As he does, he remembers the pin he has carried ever since their last parting. He pulls the jewel from his pocket and holds it out to Curt.

“Do you want this back?”

Curt shakes his head. “You keep it.”

“What, like a souvenir?”

“We had some good times, didn’t we?” Curt asks. “I remember. Sometimes I’d look over at you dancing backstage or in the front row, and you were so happy…”

Arthur was, at first. He lowers the pin, grateful that Curt used to notice his happiness. “It’s just – weird leaving this in a drawer in my boyfriend’s flat.”

The flat is obviously Paul’s, not Arthur’s. Arthur tries to be useful, but sometimes, he _feels_ like a burden – a house-guest about to overstay his welcome. He and Paul are bound to break up before he’ll ever feel at home there.

“Guess you won’t be passing it onto him?”

“God, no.”

“You could wear it, you know.”

Arthur imagines showing up at work with the emerald pin gleaming on his jacket, and to hell with whatever Jill or Mr. Waller or even Paul may say. He almost smiles at the thought.

“Maybe I will.”

He steps back, eyeing the door. Curt sighs.

“Let me pay your cab fare,” Curt offers. “You said this place was out of your way.”

“You don’t have to.”

But Curt is too generous. He takes out his wallet, and holds several pound notes out to Arthur.

“Go ahead,” he says. “And take care of yourself.”

Arthur accepts the money. He considers taking Curt’s hand again, or shaking it, but neither gesture seems right. Instead he shoves the notes into his pocket.

“Same, and – cheers.”

Curt waves at Arthur with a stiffness that tells Arthur it’s time to leave. Staying will only make things worse. He turns from Curt, walks out the door, and trudges to the lift, breathing hard because of the tightness in his chest. This is the first time that Arthur has left Curt in a hotel room waiting for him or missing him. Maybe that’s as it should be: a sort of coming full circle. But there’s no point thinking too hard about it, or despairing over things that are well and truly over.

Still, it feels like a long and sobering walk from Curt’s room to the lift at the end of the hall.


	3. Chapter 3

Arthur gets out of the cab near the Tube station. He walks the rest of the way home, grateful that the rain has tapered to a light drizzle. He doesn’t really expect Paul to be back yet, but he’d rather not explain the cab, Curt, or anything else if he’s wrong.

Paul’s Volkswagen is parked under the birch tree around the corner from their flat. That’s normal, and tells Arthur nothing. Paul rarely takes the car except when he drives out to Slough to visit his parents, or wants to avoid particularly horrid weather, like the night he and Arthur met. Arthur turns the corner. He hardly sees the light in the white-framed window of their flat before the lie comes to him fully-formed. _We closed up late, and then I got dragged to the pub with a mate from the shop. No kebabs this time, I promise._

“Where were you?” Paul asks as Arthur enters the room. “I figured you’d be here playing your records.”

Arthur takes off his jacket and bundles it in his hands. He looks down, conscious that his eyes must be red from the joint he smoked, and that he’ll have to hide his stash of pot later. The lie about where he was is already on his lips. It would be easy for him to swallow his words and hope Paul is more interested in the BBC than in Arthur's evening. But he hears himself say, “I ran into my ex-boyfriend.”

His mouth goes dry the moment the words are out. He and Paul never talked about boundaries or histories; Paul might get upset at the thought of his kept boy running off with someone else. Arthur holds his breath, trying not to think of how much he has to lose for one useless moment of honesty.

“Nothing happened, but he – things ended terribly between us. I needed to know they were properly over…”

Paul turns from the television and stares at Arthur with a raised eyebrow.

“Where did you run into him?”

“At the shop.”

Arthur hopes this question will be the last. Curt is so much cooler than jealous, insecure old Paul, and Arthur doesn’t want to start a row, or run either of them down – not now. Not anymore.

“Well,” says Paul, “I thought I had a tiring day at work – which I did, which is why I came home early. It sounds like it wasn't half as tiring or as awkward as yours, though.” He shoves a jumper and some papers off the seat beside him, then beckons to Arthur. “You can sit down, you know. You’re allowed.”

“Thanks,” Arthur murmurs. He hangs his jacket by the door before joining Paul on the sofa. Paul reaches up to stroke his arm. His hands are soft, an office clerk’s hands, without Curt’s calluses. The comparison comes to Arthur as easily as lying does. He pushes the thought away with an effort.

“How are you feeling?” Paul continues. Belatedly, Arthur remembers that morning, and buries his face in Paul’s shoulder.

“I’ll live,” he replies, and means it.


End file.
